The Big Bang – a poem by Mary Ellen Shaughan

The Big Bang

I lean back in my upholstered seat, 
eyes scanning the orchestra program
while strings, brass and winds tune to A.
Suddenly, the house lights dim and 
pre-concert chatter ceases; everyone can hear
the conductor as he strides onto the stage, 
his leather soles slapping the polished 
wood floor. Concert-goers, warm and
comfortable in their plush seats, break 
into applause; with just a curt nod
of his head, the conductor steps 
onto the podium, raises his baton, 
then brings it down sharply. 
The earlier silence is shattered 
like a crystal ball by shiny, 
explosive brass; it is fireworks; 
it is shooting stars, and I think, 

This is how the Big Bang 
must have sounded; 
the Creator would not 
have chosen anything less 
splendid to announce 
her most glorious design. 
No matter that French horns, 
trumpets, and trombones did not yet exist.
Nor, for that matter, did France.

Mary Ellen Shaughan lives and writes in Western Massachusetts. Her poetry has appeared in Gyroscope Review, Amethyst Review, Skipjack Review, a&u: American’s AIDS Magazine, Red Rover, and several anthologies. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she hones her craft writing 30 poems each November in support of new Americans. Her 1st book of poetry, Home Grown, can be found on Amazon and elsewhere.